A Thank-You Gift
by LeHypeWagon
Summary: Someone's getting a thank-you gift and by that I mean three dicks up the ass


Your phone vibrated in your right pocket. Who the hell could it be, at this ungodly late hour?

"I swear if this is another prank call someone's gonna get dunked hard," you muttered as you pulled out your phone. Swiping past the Overwatch logo, you saw the word MCCREE flash in white and blue on your screen. _EMERGENCY MEETING_ , he'd written. _CONTROL ROOM._

Well shit. You were just about to go home and watch the third season of "Keeping Up with the Kardashians" with a bowl of ice cream in hand, but apparently you had overtime to do. That punk Jesse was lucky he sounded like Matthew Mercer and was half as handsome as the world-famous voice actor. You grabbed your Overwatch leather coat from the back of your chair, and walked lightly towards the elevator hallway.

Because this is a terrible half-assed fanfic you suddenly remembered the first time you and Jesse met, during a mission on the outskirts of Hastings, in England. Commander Morrison had asked for a double-pepperoni pizza, and they had sneaked into the town at night to grab one of the delicacies. You remembered how dashing a figure McCree was, bathing in the autumn moonlight. You also remembered how he tripped on a stray cat and put the entire mission in jeopardy. When reporting back to Commander Morrison, he brushed it off all coolly, and then tried to invite you to a date, which of course you refused because YOU'RE NOT THAT EASY AREN'T YOU?

Your phone's buzzing brought you back to reality as you entered the empty elevator. Another text? From Commander Morrison himself, no less. _GET OVER HERE AND LISTEN UP_. Always full of tact, the Commander. Jack Morrison was his name, though everyone called him Commander, except for Mercy who called him "Daddy" for some reason, and only when they were alone. What did it matter that she had a personal nickname for him when you didn't? You totally weren't jealous or anything. Hell, you could probably come up with a much better nickname, like "Papa" or something. You bet Jack would love it.

As the elevator made its way up to the control room, your thoughts wavered to your first time meeting Commander Morrison. You remembered the way he looked at you, the newest recruit, looked you up and down, and told you to "watch this."

What followed then was the most amazing thing you'd ever seen in your young existence. The Commander sprinted, which apparently no one else in Overwatch could do, preferring to move during firefights with a brisk walk. At first you thought that he must've been a heretic, that he'd made a deal with the devil to obtain such powers, but then you really realized that everyone could do it but apparently Blizzard was too lazy to include a sprint button.

You were one floor away from the control room when your phone buzzed YET AGAIN. You didn't take even the smallest peek because honestly you were getting tired of everyone's shit and you just wanted to go home and watch the Kardashians be famous for being famous. The elevator doors opened wide.

The control room was large, with a large oval table in the center, with mountains of papers and folders spread here and there. At the end of the room, three men were discussing heatedly. About what, you couldn't be sure. You recognized Jesse McCree, with a pansy American flag embroidered on his poncho. He was the first to notice you and tipped his hat in your general direction. "M'lady," he said as you rolled your eyes and groaned internally.

The second man was Jack Morrison, gallant as ever, running a gloved hand through his thick blond mane. "You think that'll work, Gabriel?"

Gabriel Reyes nodded slowly, then turned to face you, arms crossed over his chest, holding his big-ass guns that totally weren't compensating for something. "Sit down, girl. We have business with you." He nudged towards the chair next to them.

You made your way through the awkward silence and the intense looks your coworkers gave you and sat down next to them. There was another pause, before the Commander cleared his throat, gave the two other men a look, and rubbed his hands together.

"I guess you'd like to know why you're here."

"Something about an emergency meeting? Does the planet need saving? Did someone shoot Winston again? Did someone complain about Tracer's butt? Or do you just need another pizza?"

McCree put his hand on your shoulder. "Y'see, Y/N, we wanted to give you a little something to thank you for all your years of hard work-"

You interrupted him and slapped away the hand on your shoulder. "I've been working here for six months, what are you even talking about?"

The Commander put his face in his palm and groaned while Gabriel just chuckled mockingly. "The actual reason why we called you here, girl, is because-"

"Gabe. I'll do it," Morrison said, and stood up, looking at you all the while. "We thought you might be interested in _this_ ," he said as he snapped his fingers and OH GOD THEY'RE ALL NAKED.

Shocked, you stood up and took three steps back. "What the hell is this, some wish-fulfillment fanfiction?"

All three of them nodded. "Oh. Fair enough," you said reluctantly. And then you snapped your fingers too because it made sense to you at the time. Nothing happened, though.

"It only works when I do it," Morrison explained as he proved his point.

What followed was only slightly better than episode 7 of season 2 of the Kardashians. They each had you, right there on the table, in quick succession. While one was busy with you, the two others watched and charged their ults. McCree was first. His Peacekeeper was certainly bigger than his actual gun, and his precision was flawless. Headshots after headshots hit you as you shook with pleasure. "Howdy," he kept saying over and over, but it did nothing to take away from the thrill of it.

Your phone buzzed again on the table, and flashed open. The time was written in bright blue letters. _OH NO_ , you thought as you saw McCree's smile flash wide.

"Deadeye's ready," he groaned. What followed were the six most perfect shots you'd ever experienced, and your defense matrix absorbed them all.

Jack Morrison was next. He used quick, small thrusts mixed with powerful ones – he called them his Helix Rockets – and the change of pace was too much for you. A "Papa" escaped your lips, but his face remained stone-cold. "Kids these days, I swear," you thought you heard him mutter under his breath.

Gabriel had been standing there like a gargoyle all the while, but when his time came, he let it be known. "REPOSITIONING," he shouted from the other end of the room. And oh my god he was big, much bigger than that nerd McCree was. The next minutes felt like you were in a trance of some sort, doing the dance with Gabriel as a mariachi band played in the background.

"You can't be serious," Gabriel muttered as he turned to see that Jack had brought in an actual mariachi band into the room. He shooed them away by spinning around like a spinning top, yelling "DIE DIE DIE" all the while. When he finally returned to your loving embrace, his face was tense and edgy. You felt him come inside you. "Death comes," he groaned. And so did you.

On the morrow, McCree came by your office to say hi. He said he still wanted that date from the other day. "I've already got a thing with Gabriel tonight," you said. What followed was the saddest face you'd ever seen. You had broken that poor man's heart and-

"Wait, he's wearing an American flag on his poncho. Fuck him," you thought aloud. McCree came back a few seconds later, his face broken in half by anger and sadness.

"Oh, by the way, Gabriel has AIDS," he said as a final revenge. Then he gave you the middle finger and walked with as much pride as a rejected loser could muster.


End file.
